


And The Trail Always Leads Back To You

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6167713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, listen. I may need to borrow Genghis.” </p><p>He pulls the phone away from his ear, wincing at the brightness of the screen. <i>Her royal highness,</i> the display reads, accompanied with a extreme close-up of a blue eye. Right. Bellamy runs a hand over his face, composes himself. “Who the fuck is Genghis?” </p><p>“It’s a possible name for the van.” Clarke replies, absent minded, as if she’s not talking to him at five in the fucking morning. “There’s been a string of burglaries over at Ark High, and Raven says we should check it out.” </p><p>Or: Bellamy refuses to be a part of whatever sleuthing hijinks his friends are getting up to (with his van, no less.) Too bad Clarke’s pretty persistent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And The Trail Always Leads Back To You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelikaElena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelikaElena/gifts).



> Written for one my fic giveaway prizes, this is essentially a fun scooby doo type au inspired by this post. [(x)](http://nitewrighter.tumblr.com/post/138842315693/scooby-doo-idea-daphne-blake-as-the-weird-rich)Hope you guys like it!

 

Bellamy Blake’s day is off to a  _ spectacularly _ bad start.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he announces, slamming his foot down on the gas pedal and swearing when it barely inches forward, the van sputtering to a stop just as he pulls up to the high school parking lot.

With one last kick against the dented door, he heaves his toolbox out from under his seat, darting out and popping the hood in one fluid motion. There’s steam rising from a foreign looking valve, and he gives it a experimental poke with his wrench. Honestly, that’s as far as his abilities go when it comes to mechanics. He needs Raven for this.

“I don’t think that’s how a wrench works.”

Pushing his hair out of his eyes impatiently, he directs the force of his glare over to the blonde rounding the corner instead. She’s a little shorter than he is, small and neat and  _ pretty  _ in a way that chafes against him instantly, sets him on edge. Her white sneakers are immaculate next to his scuffed, worn boots.

“What would  _ you  _ know about fixing cars?” He smirks, dropping the wrench into her open palm. (He’s half-tempted to warn her that the residual grease on it would probably leave permanent stains on her skirt, but if  _ she  _ doesn’t care, why should he?)

Twisting past him, the girl gives the valve a sharp rap. The engine rumbles to life, obnoxiously loud, the air conditioning rattling to life and evening out to a low hum.

She turns over to face him, grinning. Bellamy scowls right back.

“What, not even a thank you?” she goes, stepping aside so he can slam the hood shut. “That’s a little rude of you, don’t you think?”

He shrugs, side-steps her so he can reach for his backpack thrown hastily in the backseat. “I’m not exactly known around here for being nice.”

“Well, it’s more along the lines of, bossy, self-entitled asshole from student council, but yeah. Close enough.” He snorts at the sweetness of her tone, belied by the aggravated tilt of her chin. The deep, red grooves on her bare shoulder distract him enough for him to pause, evaluating if he should offer to take the violin case slung over her shoulder. There’s what looks like a tennis racket strapped over it as well, and he wrinkles his nose at the bulging backpack, a tattered sketchbook poking out of it. Clearly one of the high-strung, over-achieving types looking to bolster their resumes for college.

“I’d offer to take your violin for you, but I’m not sure how you’ll undo this entire contraption you have going on for you.” he comments, mild. She narrows her eyes, assessing him with something akin to deep suspicion. He wonders, idly, if anyone has ever offered before.

“I’m taking a few extracurriculars this semester.” she says instead, prim. “And I’m good, thanks.” Then, a tad hesitantly, “You’re Bellamy, right? I think we have world history together.”

“Probably.” Bellamy nods, hitching his backpack higher against his shoulder. He’s never noticed her before, but then again, he spends most of his time arguing with Mr. Wallace over the class syllabus. “I never got your name, though.”

“It’s Clarke.” She smiles, and he decides- a tad grudgingly- that he likes the way she talks, just a little. Careful, like she’s weighing every word, but with conviction too. When people like her spoke, you listened even if you didn’t want to.

“Well,” he says finally, after a considerable pause. “I would thank you for fixing my shit pile of a van, but I’m not jumping to any conclusions until I get my mechanic to look at it.”

Clarke sighs, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “It physically  _ pains  _ you to be nice, doesn’t it?”

“You did call me bossy, self-entitled asshole.” he remarks, amused, biting on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing when her cheeks flush. She still refuses to break eye contact despite her embarrassment, resolutely clenching her jaw and staring him down. It’s pretty admirable.

“I stand by what I said.” she mutters, speeding up at the shrill screech of the bell, merging into the crowd trekking across the quad in practiced, measured steps. He opts for the grass instead, deliberates waving goodbye when he makes it in first but decides not to. It’s not like they’re  _ friends  _ or anything. Not from one conversation.

That should have been the end of it. But it isn’t.

She’s not just in his history class, she’s in his chemistry lab too, constantly in his field of vision with her falling-apart backpack, only held together with a couple of safety pins and what he assumes is the sheer force of Clarke’s will. The teachers seem to like her well enough, even though she answers every question like how someone would pick a fight, all prickly and teeth and clenched fists. There’s a boy who sits next to her for all her classes, quiet and unassuming, a dog’s leash wound around his wrist like a lifeline. “His name is  _ Monty _ .” Miller cuts in, during one of their student council sessions. Then, looking a little abashed at his outburst, adds. “He let me copy off his math homework, once.”

But it’s not just enough for him to be frustratingly aware of her presence, at this point. Nope, the universe just has to throw a wrench into his plans (graduate with first class honors, pass the student council baton on to the person who would seem  _ least  _ likely to fuck it up) and include Clarke Griffin’s name in the list of fundraising candidates.

Granted, considering she’s the president of almost half the clubs in school, Bellamy really shouldn’t be surprised by this development.

“You’re the president of seventeen clubs.” he says, in lieu of hello when she saunters in after class, varsity jacket thrown over her shoulders carelessly and a lollipop caught between her teeth.

“Eighteen, actually.” Clarke frowns, swinging up and onto the stool. “I know I need to have more than one member for the equestrian club, but I’m working on it.”

“I didn’t know there were stables here.”

“There aren’t,” she says, idly fanning through the spreadsheets of clubs he compiled over the last few days. “Doesn’t mean I can’t live a horse-appreciation life, though.”

“Whatever gets you excited.” Bellamy deadpans, filing away the information for future reference. It’s a pretty short list so far, but  _ weirdly protective of horses  _ is something he didn’t think he’d be adding.

It doesn’t take long for him to explain the whole fundraising spiel, and even lesser time for Clarke to sign off on all of them. It’s nice having to deal with someone who doesn’t hem and haw over a  _ bake sale _ . He’s mostly considering getting some ice cream on the way back, maybe swing by the yogurt place Octavia likes so much when- for some stupid, unfathomable reason- he goes, “Do you need a ride back?” and the next thing he knows, Clarke Griffin is sliding into the passenger seat, knee bouncing as he starts up the van.

“Does it have a name?”

“ _ Bellamy _ ,” he says with exaggerated slowness, grinning when she gives a dramatic eyeroll, head thumping back against the seat. “What? You asked, I answered.”

“I meant the van.” she mutters, rapping her knuckles against the dashboard. “It has lots of character.”

“That sounds like a passive-aggressive way of saying that it’s a crap heap.” he muses, barreling on despite the indignant sound she makes. “You can cut the diplomatic bullshit, Clarke. I don’t respond well to it anyway.”

“Nah, just thinly veiled death threats and the occasional compliment, right?” she snarks, beaming at the clench of his jaw, fingers tightening over the wheel. “Come on, gun to head: what would you name your van?”

“I don’t know, what do I have to say to get you off my back?” He makes a sharp left at that, instinctively throwing out his arm to push her back when the van jerks slightly at the motion. “Thanks.” she murmurs and he pulls away, swallowing hard. It’s instinctual for him, at this point, but Octavia used to make fun of him about it all the time anyway. (“Did you just… use the soccer mom arm on me?” “ _ Shut _ up, O.”)

“I had my seatbelt on.” she remarks, poking gently at his side when he continues to ignore her steadfastly. “I’m slowly realising that you’re actually a drama queen.”

“I’m not-- I’m the furthest thing from  _ dramatic _ , Clarke.” He flips on his blinker, waits the requisite two seconds before merging into the lane seamlessly. “How about; thank you, Bellamy, for ensuring that my head didn’t go through the windshield?”

“I’ll put your name down for this year’s production of Hamlet.” she adds, without missing a beat. “Just make a left at this traffic light, and keep going. A little further ahead.”

Her house is everything he expected it to be: sprawling, well-maintained. There’s a neat row of shoes lined up by the door, all of varying sizes, and even a koi pond by the side. Octavia tried to steal a bunch of them from a mall once, and they had  _ both  _ received life-long bans. (Bellamy didn’t see what the big deal was. Weren’t they just overgrown goldfish?)

“This is me.” She unclips her seatbelt carefully, nudges the door fully open with the edge of her sneaker before slipping out. He shifts gears, readies to move out when she rounds past the van, brow arched and  _ waiting _ . Sighing, Bellamy rolls down the window.

“What?”

“You never did name this beauty.” Clarke says, patting the rearview mirror fondly. “Come on, Bellamy. It’s not like it’s hard.”

“I don’t know,” he groans, running a hand over his face. “I wanted to call my dog Bessie when I was six. Good enough for you?”

“We’re not calling her  _ Bessie _ ,” she goes, sounding distinctly scandalized. “That’s what you call a cow.”

“If you say so.” Bellamy grumbles, flexing his fingers and repositioning them against the wheel. “Look, I hate to break this up, but I’m late for dinner.”

“Shit, sorry.” She does sound genuinely apologetic, taking a step back so he has to lean forward slightly just to hear her. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll come up with something.”

“Sure,” he tells her, dry. Her smile is  _ blinding. _ “Whatever the hell you want.”

He backs out of her driveway before she can say anything else, wondering when the  _ fuck  _ he had agreed to co-own a van with one Clarke Griffin.

 

+

Apparently, Raven’s idea of a fun Friday night involves camping out at the abandoned property by the old swimming hole, knee-deep in reeds and caked in mud. 

It’s safe to say that Bellamy is not exactly  _ pleased  _ by this development.

“What happened to cards and beer?” he hisses as they crest up the hill, his thighs aching from the effort. “What happened to, I don’t know, age appropriate activities, huh?”

“You only think you’re eighty.” Raven snorts, looping a battered pair of binoculars over his neck and nodding approvingly. “Stay out here, if you want. I’m going in to check things out.”

The noise that erupts from him is part sputter, part growl. “So I’m supposed to just let you walk into a murder house alone, despite the distinct possibility that there could be an axe-wielding mass murderer right on the other side of the door?”

Raven grins, pats the side of his cheek. “Well, at least your theory wasn’t  _ spirits _ .”

“It’s that attitude that’s going to get you killed.” he grumbles, scrambling to catch up when she bounds forward, peeling away at the rusted fence with skilled precision and ducking through it.

She shakes his arm off the second they descend onto the porch, barreling in with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. He resigns himself to staring suspiciously at dark corners all while trailing behind her, making sporadic clicks with the flashlight just so she can flip him off every few seconds. It’s the little things.  

“This place smells like ammonia and cat pee.” Bellamy declares, flat, as she runs her fingers along the banister of the already rotting staircase, “What are you expecting to find here anyway?”

“Faecal matter or anything that proves it’s not being haunted, really.” she chirps, wiggling her dust-coated palm at him, laughing when he cringes away. “Come on, Bellamy. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Died along with whatever did in this house.” he leers, morphing into a yelp when he feels something brush up against the back of his thigh, cold and wet even through the fabric of his jeans. He hears Raven’s laugh in the midst of all the confusion, flashlight skittering uselessly in his sweaty palm as he tries to angle it towards the assailant, before redirecting it towards the sudden clamor of voices coming from above.

“Sorry.” One of them declares ruefully, hands raised over his head comically. “I just let him off the leash for a second, I swear.”

Then, “Bellamy, if your objective was to blind us with your impressive, high-powered flashlight, I’m sure you’ve done it by now.”

He lowers it, squints. “Clarke?”

“And Monty.” she adds, nudging the other figure forward. He’s taller than he remembers, all harsh angles in the light, belied by the way he hunches in on himself, awkward and self-deprecating. It’s a little hard to picture him interacting with Miller and not being ripped to shreds- no one could make it past Miller without getting cuts from his edges, after all, but, well. What did Bellamy know, anyway?

“What are you guys doing here?”

She scowls at the sharpness of his tone, the familiarity of it making him grin, just a little. “We were here  _ first.  _ So if anyone should leave, it’s--”

“Nobody’s saying that.” Raven cuts in, exasperated. The dog butts his head against her palm again, emitting a low whine until she gives in and resumes patting it. “Who’s this?”

“That’s Helios.” Monty pipes up, shuffling down the stairs and handing the leash over to Raven so she can clip it back on. “He’s normally not  _ this _ friendly, so he must really like you.”

She flushes a little at that, clearly pleased, fingers darting up so she can scratch him behind his ears. There’s a beat- Clarke perched warily by the stairs, Bellamy mirroring her posture- when Monty goes, “You’re in engineering club, right?” and they both relax, clearly in comfortable territory. Bellamy tunes out when someone mentions thermodynamics, focuses on picking at the loose piece of thread hanging from his jacket sleeve instead. He’s half tempted to suggest that they conduct this conversation outside instead- and  _ away  _ from the creepy murder house- but he highly doubts Raven would even hear him anyway.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised.” Clarke quips, so quiet that he nearly jumps out of his skin at the proximity. “Clearly they get along great.”

“Well, Raven’s normally not that great with new people.” Bellamy points out, shrugging. “With good reason, though.” he hastens to add, pushing down at the swell of annoyance that surges up whenever he’s reminded of the whole Finn debacle. (There’s a short list of people that Bellamy would want to punch repeatedly in the face, and Finn Collins is pretty high up on there.)

“Neither is Monty.” Clarke says, crisp, shooting him a searching glance, and he recognizes the undercurrent of protectiveness in her voice, has heard it in his own many times, too. He snorts, bites at the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Maybe they  _ did _ have more in common than he thought.

“So, are we going to just stand here all day?” she grins, bumping her elbow against his. “I don’t know about you, but I came here looking for a ghost.”

“There is  _ no  _ ghost.” Raven interjects, rising to her feet and wiping her grimy palms against her the fabric of her jeans. “But whatever it is, I’m planning on finding out.”

“Bet I’ll figure it out before you do.” Clarke goes, deceptively casual, and he nearly groans at how Raven straightens at that, small smile playing at her lips from the issued challenge.

“Deal.” she beams, sticking her hand out for Clarke to shake.

Well, Bellamy thinks, grim, staring down at their twined fingers. There goes his chances of having a peaceful senior year. Figures.

 

+

“So, listen. I may need to borrow Genghis.” 

He pulls the phone away from his ear, wincing at the brightness of the screen.  _ Her royal highness _ , the display reads, accompanied with a extreme close-up of a blue eye. Right. Bellamy runs a hand over his face, composes himself. “Who the fuck is Genghis?”

“It’s a possible name for the van.” Clarke replies, absent minded, as if she’s not talking to him at five in the fucking morning. “There’s been a string of burglaries over at Ark High, and Raven says we should check it out.”

“So get her to take you.” he mutters, burying back under his cocoon of sheets.

“Can’t.” There’s a muffled thump in the background, followed by a rather creative string of curses. “She hitched a ride with one of her engineering club buddies. And Monty’s sitting out of this one, he has a pop quiz today.”

“We have chem lab.” Bellamy points out, clucking his tongue reprovingly. “You’re skipping?”

“Why not?” she retorts. “It’s  _ one  _ lesson. Besides, I know the material.”

“I can’t believe you’re encouraging delinquency.” he sighs, kicking off his sheets and shivering at the rush of cool air that settles over his body. “Just-- fine. I’ll pick you up from the bus stop.”

“You don’t have to.” she back-tracks. “I can-- I’ll just swing by and get the keys. You don’t have to take me.”

_ I want to _ , he nearly tells her, in his sleep-addled state, but thankfully he stops himself just in time. “I don’t just let anyone drive the van.” he says instead, stumbling to his feet and getting the shower started. “And it’s still dark out. I’d be crazy to let you head out on your own.”

“That would be hopelessly out of character.” Clarke agrees, though he can sense her hesitation in the silence that follows. Bellamy sticks his toothbrush under the water, waits.

“I really appreciate it.” she goes, soft. “So, uhm. Thanks, I guess. See you in a few.”

“See you.” he replies, mild, trying not to smile when he hears the unmistakable sound of her having dropped her phone. (She might actually be  _ flustered _ . It’s cute.)

He takes a quick shower, throws on a clean shirt and leaves some cereal out for Octavia before heading out. The street is eerily quiet when he twists the key in its ignition, the rumble of the van so loud that it startles a few of the crows perched on the roof, only quietening down when he turns the corner to the next street. There’s a lone figure by the bus stop, face turned away from the sun. He presses down on the horn, twice. The scowl she shoots him would have been impressive if it wasn’t for the slight upturned corners of her mouth.

“It’s five in the morning. You don’t have to yell.” Clarke tells him, accusatory, sliding into the seat and kicking the door shut. The unmistakable smell of muffins wafts over from the brown bag in her lap, and he switches on the radio to disguise the low grumble of his stomach.

“How does me  _ not  _ saying a word constitute as yelling?”

“Aggressive honking translates to yelling.” she says through a mouthful of muffins. Those mini ones, he realises, filled with jam. His stomach gives yet another mournful gurgle. “Do you think we’ll be there by seven?”

“Hopefully.” he grunts, directing his attention back to the road. “What’s this about a string of burglaries?”

She hums, popping the lid off her coffee and taking a sip, ignoring his muttered threats of,  _ if you fucking spill, I swear to god-- _

“There’s been some stuff going missing from the girls’ locker room. Mostly petty things, like socks and keychains and the occasional deodorant, but I thought it’d be interesting to check out. Plus, Raven thinks it’s some huge conspiracy that concerns our school’s sports teams as well, so there’s that.”

“Fascinating.” he remarks, dry. “I’m guessing knitting was too much of a passive hobby?”

“Surprisingly, I have not picked up sewing.” Clarke says, frowning. Then, with a shrug, “I’ll add it to my list.”

“Sure.” Bellamy smirks, drumming his fingers against the wheel as they wait for the light to turn green. “Who needs sleep, right?”

“Not when there’s coffee.” She punctuates her statement with a wiggle of her coffee cup, and he eyes the sloshing liquid with trepidation. One drop and he’s throwing the damn cup out of the window. “You want some?”

He grimaces, “Who drinks it black?”

“There’s  _ sugar _ in it.” she says, like it makes all the difference in the world. “Just enough of it, too. Not like the crap Starbucks puts out.”

“What’s wrong with  _ Starbucks _ ?”

Clarke groans. “Please tell me you’re just doing this to be argumentative.”

“I like their vanilla lattes.” he argues.

“The more you know.” she mutters, taking a pointed bite from her muffin. There’s jam and sugar all over her fingers, smeared across her mouth too, and he has to force himself to turn away. 

“Want one?” she asks, oblivious. Bellamy swallows, teeth sliding and grinding over one another clumsily in a valiant effort not to look over. “I’m driving.” he ekes out.

“There’s a stoplight up front.” Clarke goes, pointed, levelling a piece against his jaw.

“I’m not all that hungry, really.” His stomach gives a traitorous growl at that, and he can practically  _ feel  _ her smirk, his ears burning hot now and knee jiggling against the wheel.

“It’s just a muffin. What, did you think--”

“ _ Fine _ .” He swivels over, tries not to overthink it when his teeth grazes against her outstretched fingers, tasting the salt of her skin mingling with the sweetness of the sugar. She draws away immediately after, cheeks pink.

The moment draws out, filled with a kind of tension that sits heavily against his chest, makes him restless. It feels like he’s two steps away from doing something ridiculously and utterly stupid, like pulling over and kissing her senseless--

He shakes the thought away, rolls out the tension in his shoulders. “Maybe I was just worried you poisoned them.”

It’s the right thing to say, clearly, and he can practically feel her deflate, sagging against the seat in relief. “I won’t put it past me, either.” she laughs, putting her feet up against the dash despite the strangled sound of protest he makes. “Keep driving, Bellamy.”

 

+

They get a flat on the way back, which is one of the worst things that has arguably happened to him. 

“You have a spare, right?” Raven asks, jabbing furiously away on her phone. (She had refused to hitch a ride back with her engineering buddies, claiming that this one kid Wells was annoying her. Bellamy’s 90% sure it means that she has a crush on the guy, but he’s big enough not to call her out on it.)

He grunts in response, slams the door a little too hard on his way out. The tyre feels clumsy under his arm, wind stinging against his face when he drops to his knees, grabbing several loose rocks to prop up the front and back tyres. There’s something that he should be doing with the jack tossed haphazardly to the side, too, but he’s not exactly sure what.

“Glaring at it is not going to help, you know.”

“Your sense of timing is uncanny.” he proclaims, snide. “A beacon of shining light whenever the van  inevitably  fucks up.”

“Ease up, asshole.” Clarke huffs, plopping down onto the ground next to him and handing him the jack. “It’s a five minute job, you don’t have to get mad.”

“I’m  _ not _ .” The metal bites into his palm from clenching at it too hard, and he forces himself to relax, loosening his grip. “Just get back in, I’ll handle it.”

“I’m fine out here.” she declares, stubborn, despite the goosebumps rising on her bare arms, her nose already turning pink from the cold. “At least go grab your jacket.” he mutters, setting the jack back down by his knee. It feels awkward and heavy in his hands, foreign.

She takes it wordlessly, movements sure and deft as she slides it under the frame of the car. There’s a beat after- almost like she’s expecting him to intervene- and at his silence, continues. Bellamy swallows, turns his face away resolutely. He can feel his jaw working with the effort of staying quiet, teeth clashing and mouth dry. The right thing to do would be to crack some joke- attempt to ease the tension- but instead he goes, “It’s not like I had a dad to teach me any of this stuff, okay?”

The weight of her gaze is fleeting, feather-light, before it goes back to the task at hand. His body shakes- from the cold, or shame or relief, he’s not sure anymore- and he has to ground his heels into the gravel to right himself again.

“I’m going to need help with this.” Clarke says, brisk. “See this? It’s a hubcap. I need you to remove it, then start turning this clockwise.”

Bellamy scoots closer, presses their knees together. “What am I supposed to be loosening again?”

She smiles, hands him the wrench thrown haphazardly into his toolbox. “The nuts. They’re going to be a pain to remove, so I’ll leave that to you.”

“As you wish.” he teases, trying valiantly not to fidget when she lays her hand over his, shows him exactly how to do it, palm icy cold against his. He rubs his thumb over the cradle of her wrist, apprehensive, almost expecting her to flinch away from the contact. She doesn’t.

“Make sure-- you have to align the rim with the bolts.” Her teeth have began to chatter, lips pale despite the fact that his palm is draped over hers, and before she can protest, he strips himself of his jacket, dropping it over her shoulders.

“Don’t.” Bellamy mutters, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground before slotting the new wheel into place neatly. “You’re no good to me if you’re a popsicle anyway.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” she ekes out, prim, drawing the jacket closer to her and burying her face into the collar. He doesn’t even bother to conceal his grin this time, fingers fumbling as he focuses on tightening the remaining nuts.

“Fucking finally,” Raven announces when they slide back into the warmth of the car, smelling faintly of grease and rust. “What took you guys so long?”

“You can’t rush perfection.” he retorts, meeting Clarke’s eyes in the rearview mirror. She still has his jacket on, lower half of her face immersed in the wide collar. A second glance and he spots her puffy pink coat tossed in a crumpled heap to the side, the tip of her ears pink.

A swift kick to the back of his seat pulls him out of his thoughts, his hands reaching for the wheel instinctively. “Let’s get the show on the road,” Raven goes, fingers darting to ruffle his hair while he scowls, feet pressing down on the gas pedal and bringing them closer and closer to home.

 

+

In hindsight, telling her to keep the jacket was probably a mistake. 

“It’s not like I gave it to her,” Bellamy points out, exasperated. Raven won’t stop winking at him all day, making cooing noises whenever he remotely _interacts_ with Clarke and it’s getting on his nerves. “I said she could return it whenever she liked. It’s not a big deal.”

She snorts, claps his shoulder, hard. “I hope you weren’t too attached, because you’re probably never getting it back.”

“Why,” he demands, trying to keep from sounding too excited. “Has she been wearing it?”

It’s the wrong thing to say, clearly, judging from the slow shake of Raven’s head. “You guys are so  _ obvious _ .” she groans, spinning on her heel and marching away.

She returns it eventually, neatly folded and smelling faintly of her perfume. Not that he checked, or anything.

 

+

Clarke insists on celebrating the first time they make the paper- having uncovered the disappearance behind some missing parts from the local shoe factory- and honestly, Bellamy would have been thrilled about it if it wasn’t for the headline.

“Local teens take a leap of faith; solves month long mystery.” Monty reads, shoulders shaking from the effort of suppressing laughter. “Pictured from left to right: Clarke Griffin, Raven Reyes, Monty Green and  _ Bartholomew _ Blake.”

“It’s like they didn’t even try.” he whines, slumping over and onto Clarke’s offered shoulder. She laughs, slides her hand over to pat him on the cheek before carding it through his hair instead, all absent affection. Bellamy’s a big fan.

“Didn’t someone say that he didn’t want to be a part of this in the first place?” Raven smirks, tapping her beer bottle against Miller’s raised one.  _ Traitors _ .

“That’s hardly the point.” he grouches, kicking at Miller’s outstretched foot. “What are you doing here, anyway? You’re the one who made fun of me for getting involved.”

“I invited him.” Clarke beams, breath warm against his cheek. “He’s Monty’s friend too, so I thought he’d like to come. Right, Monty?”

There’s a strangled sound of affirmation from the other side of the room, and he thinks he catches Miller smile, just a little. Bellamy tips his beer glass in mock salute, and he narrows his eyes at him, thrusts the sheaf of newspapers back onto his lap.

“I’ll get it framed.” he mumbles, quiet enough so only Clarke can hear him. Her fingers slide back down to his jaw, tracing the arch of his mouth teasingly, only pausing when he peers up at her. Her cheeks are tinged pink, from the alcohol or  _ this _ , he can’t be sure.

“Should I be cutting you off?” he smirks. It turns into a scowl when she swipes his bottle instead, swanning away with a pointed swivel of her hips.

The rest of the night goes by in the same fashion: Raven shrieking in his ear after claiming that he cheated at cards, Miller upending the rest of the beers when Monty perches by next to him on the couch. Someone unearths an old dance dance revolution mat at some point of the night, and Clarke nearly breaks the damn thing trying to beat his high score. Everyone else passes out sometime around her fifteenth attempt, bottle swinging precariously between her clenched fingers as she takes a deep gulp, swiping her hair out of her eyes and starting again.

“I’m actually impressed that you’re still standing.” Bellamy remarks, amused, before reaching out to rearrange Miller’s limbs dangling half off the couch. Monty stirs slightly at the movement, burying his face deeper in between his shoulder blades.

“I’m  _ not  _ drunk.” Clarke snorts, planting her hands on her hips, momentarily distracted. “A few beers does not a drunk make, Bellamy Blake.”

“I meant your vigorous dancing.” he snorts, sniggering when her grade flashes on the screen, nowhere close to his. “Give it a rest already.”

Letting loose a growl of frustration, she kicks at the mat lightly, flipping it over. “How did you get so good, anyway?”

“You forget that I grew up with a younger sister.” he reminds her, unplugging the mat from the system smoothly. The high-pitched, jerky music stops abruptly, the room falling quiet except for Monty’s soft, hitching snores, the scratch of the record player that Raven had restored. “She hated that her dorky older brother had better moves than her.”

Clarke makes a face, “You have  _ moves _ ?”

“Says the girl who spent the past hour trying to beat my score.” he says, smug. “I’m good, okay? You’re looking at the guy who taught Raven how to slow dance.”

“That’s just swaying.” she retorts. “It’s not like there’s skill involved.”

“You’re kidding.” he groans, trying not to get distracted by the lash stuck against her cheek, impossibly dark and fine, precariously close to her mouth. She arches a brow at him, question clear in her eyes and he gives in, grumbling all while instructing her on the placement of her hand, where to step so she won’t trod on his feet.

“Fine,” she admits, her hair tickling his chin, close enough for him to feel her exhale against his collarbone. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“Why, I never.” he grins, lacing their fingers together so he can clutch it dramatically against his chest. “Did you just pay me a  _ compliment,  _ Clarke Griffin?”

“That’s not where your heart is.” she says, poking at it with her finger. “It’s over here.”

“I knew it was too good to last.” he goes, mock solemn, smile fading when he realises how close she is, her bottom lip catching against his jaw with the smallest of movements, fingers flexing over his shoulders to keep him close.

She smells faintly of peaches, the remnants of her perfume still lingering despite the heat of the stuffy room. There’s a small, treacherous part of him that’s tempted to lower his chin just an inch, so her lips can brush up against his. “Got it?”

“Don’t think I’m there yet.” Clarke murmurs, throat bobbing as she swallows. “Five more minutes, maybe?”

“Six.” he says, just to be contrary, feeling her laugh against his mouth when she pitches forward at that, teeth clacking together messily, his hands instinctively ducking into her hair and sliding down to cradle the back of her neck. Her kisses are harsh, bruising, like she’s trying to memorize him before he disappears into thin air and he returns them with equal fervor before slowing, taking extra care in tracing the seam of her lips, butterfly kisses down the length of her neck.

“You’re good at that too.” she laughs, nosing the side of his neck so she can hide her face into the crook of it. “I really-- I wanted to do that for a while, now.”

“Must have been the dance moves that did it.” he muses, his thumb going back down to her waist and holding her still, feeling the jut of her hip under his fingers. “It’s not-- I really, really like you, Clarke.”

He catches a glimpse of that familiar, blinding smile again, his heart thumping wildly in his chest when she goes on her tiptoes, dropping a kiss against the curve of his nose. “Look at us, finally being on the same page on  _ something _ .”

“We’re still not naming the van Genghis.” he mutters, and that earns him a slap to the chest. (She kisses it better after though- lips searing hot against the thin fabric of his shirt- so, yeah. It’s all good.)

 

\+ 

Bellamy really should have figured that something was up the minute he received one too many cryptic texts from his girlfriend. 

“You said you were  _ just _ going to put a fresh coat of paint on it,” he argues, resisting the urge to gape at the sight before him. Gaping suggests being impressed by the whole venture, and he refuses to give her the satisfaction. “What the hell, Clarke?”

“Oh, come on.” she grins, butting at his arm until he gets the message and loops it over her shoulders. “You love it.”

He reaches out to trace the bright orange flowers, the bold stencils. It’s a walking  _ billboard _ .

“Besides,” she goes, purposefully nonchalant. “We have bigger problems anyway. Something about a missing key, and a locked door mystery?”

“I don’t care.” he mutters, trying to tamper the spark of interest that hopefully, doesn’t show up on his face. “You turned my van into a walking ad, Clarke. I am-- I should be _ livid _ right now.”

But he melts into the kiss when she surges up to meet his mouth anyway, sweet and soft, her hand going up to stroke the arc of his cheekbone, settling behind the ticklish spot by his ear. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles, guilty and a little furtive, reaching up to peck his forehead when he sighs. “But I did warn you. Sort of.”

“I don’t hate it.” Bellamy mutters, a tad grudgingly. (He likes how the van feels like  _ theirs  _ now, banged up but painted in pastels and flowers, the  _ mystery machine  _ blazing across in neon letters.)

“Well, I aim to please.” she laughs, tugging on his hand and pulling him close. “Come on, Bell. Let’s get to work now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Day 63: still aggressively ignoring canon in my [trashcan.](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/)


End file.
